


Take What's Lost & Broke

by stumblinginthestars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Destiel - Freeform, Hunt Gone Wrong, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 07:55:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5198144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stumblinginthestars/pseuds/stumblinginthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The brothers are tracking the monster for days. Hoping to save the victim. But the trail goes cold, leading them to a dilapidated home where guilt and memories haunt Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take What's Lost & Broke

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a way to practice writing prose since most of my fics are usually all about dialogue. I also based the feel of this around the song "Burning House" by Cam (it's got a sad, eery feel. Give it a listen!).

 

The late December air whistles as it squeezes through gaps in the rotting wood. It had once been a grand home, sitting atop a hill like a palace peering over the land. But that had been years ago. Before the mesquite trees had overrun the sparse pecan trees across the thirty acres. Before the termites, lack of upkeep, and countless storms had taken their toll on the once strong, sturdy beams of wood. Long before the floors that had once shone with lacquer were slowly hidden under the graying layer of duct. Before the home was abandoned and forgotten.

A heavy boot hits the large, oak door, knocking it in. Two pairs of boots entered the home; the second set of guests inside these walls in over twenty years. A duffel bag is set by the front door silently. Two pairs of lungs breathe in the dust that they kick up. A slender set of fingers carefully grazes the top of the covered couch while a pair of rough, calloused hands rips through what little was left behind. A cloth is ripped off the ornate coffee table with such ferocity that the table falls to the ground, sending the two items that had been resting atop it to the floor as well.

“Dean.” A sharp whisper is directed from one of the men.

A freckled visage turns from where it is plucking up the worn book, ignoring the crushed, white flower that falls from within its pages. His face is twisted in anger, a cover for the panic that is bubbling in his chest. “What, Sam?” he snaps, his voice is lowered as well.

“Keep it down, would ya?” Hazel eyes sweep across the wide open living area before travelling up the grand staircase.

“Why? It’s empty. Nothing’s here. No one’s here.” A pause. “He’s not here.”

Sam’s face softens marginally. “We don’t know that. We only just got in here.”

Dean exhales heavily, fingers clutching the book too tightly. Desperately wishing it was a hand he was holding. Not a book with dog-eared pages and a tea-stained cover. The book is set on the couch’s covered cushions. The rough hands search quieter now, almost in a resigned way. Tired movements that seem more like going through the motions. Hopelessness seeps into the doorframes he touches, mixing with the wood rot. The walls creak in their own show of solidarity.

“I’ll check upstairs,” Sam says, clapping a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“I’ll look around these rooms.” The voice sounds unfamiliar to its vessel. Like he’s not used to being this lost.

A quick nod is given in response, lips tight in a line before Sam carefully creeps up the staircase. He tries to be silent, but the boards are not as steady as they once were. They creak beneath his thick soles, whining as if begging for attention.

Dean isn’t as careful in his movements, boots dragging through the dust and across the wood. He’s tired; a marionette and the only thing keeping him upright at this point is one last, thin string of hope. There is nothing in the kitchen to knock over and inspect. He pulls the drawers under the sink open for good measure, knife barely raised because he kind of knows nothing is waiting for him in there. The house groans under the strain of the wind and the first few droplets of rain; a storm is blowing in. No snow is expected, but it will most likely freeze over once the last sliver of sun drops below the north Texas skyline.

Dean shudders in his flannel, having not bothered to shrug on his canvas jacket that he usually wears even during some summer hunts. Forgotten intentionally, subconsciously. Punishing himself for the chain of events that lead to this. For knocking down the first domino. Just like the apocalypse. Except this seems a bit harsher. A bit more personal and crushing, oddly enough.

_You aren’t ready for this, man. Just… Back off, okay?_

He can hear Sam’s carefully measured steps above him. Some dust falls from the ceiling after one of his little brother’s steps. Dean pulls his flashlight from his back pocket and turns it on. The room is colored a lighter shade in the light, casting garish shadows around. He directs the beam towards the pantry after pulling open the grey door. Nothing inside save for a single jar of what was once canned peaches.

He moves back into the living room before pushing open the doors leading into the dining area. His footsteps echo down the long, empty expanse. The air is colder in this room, but he doesn’t pull out his EMF. Dean knows that the winter air is just pushing in down the blackened fireplace, spreading across the floor and crawling up his legs to send a shiver through his body. There’s no point in looking through this room; there is nowhere for anything to be hiding. Nowhere for a body to be stashed. He shakes off that thought as he double checks the room anyways, shining his flashlight up the chimney and seeing nothing but soot-covered bricks and rolling, black clouds up through the opening at the top.

He slips the dagger into his back pocket. He scrubs his hand down his face, a shaky breath escaping his lips. They had followed the trail for the past two days. It had led them outside of this property and then there was nothing. The clues just stopped. The lack of a blood trail had made Dean queasy. Because seeing blood meant he was still bleeding. Still alive. No blood? He’d either been drained or it had stopped flowing. He closes his eyes, tipping his head back in a weak moment. If the monster had been here, he would have been screwed, but he doesn’t think it is here. It’s starting to look like another false trail. Another house they’ll have broken into for naught.

_Can I accompany you and Sam? I’ve been researching and believe I’m ready now._

He squeezes his eyes shut tighter at the hope he had heard in the voice. The willingness to prove himself when he shouldn’t have felt obligated to do so. But no. Dean had been a dick in his panicked overprotective state. A curse tumbles from his lips before he opens his eyes again, taking in the empty, grey room once more. The light from his flashlight hits the chandelier overhead, catching on one of the six remaining crystals that had not been stolen. A prism of color appears over the doors leading back into the living room.

“Nothing up here!” Sam’s voice echoes out of a bathroom upstairs and down the stairs.

Dean gathers his voice as he stares up at the rainbow prism. “Nothing down here from what I can tell.” The last string of hope that’s been holding him upright is fraying.

The prism glimmers. Dean squints at it before heading through the doors and back into the living room. The walls moan and the pitter patter of rain falling can be heard as the storm picks up. Sam is tromping down the stairs and Dean looks up at his brother, weary to the bone. His flashlight is pointed at his shoes as he walks. He stops when a soft crunch sounds underneath a boot. He crouches and plucks up the dried out flower, pressed flat from years trapped in between the words of Edgar Allen Poe. White petals fall to the floor when he carefully twirls the long stem between his fingers.

“What’s that?” Sam asks halfway down the staircase.

Dean shines his light up at his brother, the light falling on the tall man. And the creature sneaking behind him. “Behind!” Dean shouts loudly. He drops the flower.

Sam reacts in a split second. He turns on his heel and flips the blade between long fingers in one motion. His arm draws back as a snarl comes from the pale figure’s blood-stained lips. The shriek is cut short when Sam’s blade slices through its neck. He grunts when the blade hits the vertebrae. The creature collapses, releasing another shriek. Sam raises his arm and delivers the final thwack, fully severing the head from the vampire’s body. He stands up, chest heaving as he sucks in a dusty lungful of air.

Dean is suddenly on edge, voice cracking as he calls the one word he’s been scared to utter. The one name that stirs something in his chest. “Cas?” No sound comes from the house and Sam hurries back up the staircase once more, shouting the name as well. Dean’s eyes dart around the empty room frantically searching for something. Anything.

“Please, please, please,” he breathes quietly, the beam of his flashlight whipping around.

Dean’s head bows and his beam drops to shine around his boots once more. No reply comes. There’s a draft seeping in at floor level. The petals of the flower tumble towards the staircase. Dean watches them mournfully. They hit the wall below the staircase. They disappear in a thin crack where the floor meets the wall. Dean frowns, stepping forward. He lifts the flashlight to shine against the ashen wall. The house creaks loudly as he advances toward it, ushering him forwards. Beckoning him closer.

There’s a seam. Thin and almost undetectable. Dean’s breath catches in his throat and he runs a shaky hand against the wall. A faux wall. A hidden door. He feels his way down the crack, forcing his fingernails in the small crevice. He claws at it frantically. His breathing is as erratic as the pounding of the rain outside. He finally gets leverage, easing the door out an inch before dropping the flashlight and gripping the edge and thrusting it open. The blood trail is back. Two drops were covered under the edge of the door. A small puddle of blood was hidden behind it. A body is laying in the puddle.

_I think I found a case, Dean._

_Go for it if you’re so prepared, champ._

The flashlight rolling on the floor catches the maroon and red streaks of blood, standing out garishly against the muted floors and walls. “Cas!” The name is a choked sound. The only sound. The house is quiet. It’s not creaking or groaning anymore. It sits somberly. The sound of the rain has disappeared. Dean grips the familiar shoulders, pulling the crumpled body from where it has been cramped in the staircase closet and pulls him into the leaving room. Blood smears after them. The only color in the white-washed house. Dean falls to his knees beside the body, he hears Sam clomping downstairs. His brother’s voice breaks when he breathes, “Oh, shit.”

One side of Castiel’s neck bears the deep puncture wounds from pointed teeth. Bruises circle the wound, dark and purple against the unnaturally pale skin. Dean reaches around to the opposite side of his friend’s neck. The calloused fingers are gentle as they search for the pulse point. They press down and the whispers of “please” start again. A soft thrum underneath the skin causes a relieved sob to wrack Dean’s taught body. “He’s alive. He’s alive.” He gasps out, clutching a limp hand in both of his as Sam drags the duffel over from where it had been left and his hands paw through its contents.

Stitches are administered slowly and carefully to the ripped skin around Castiel’s throat by the younger man. “Let’s get him to the car. Then, we’ll get rid of the house.”

They carry Castiel’s prone body to the car, laying him carefully across the backseat. Dean doesn’t care about the bloodstains. Sam doesn’t say anything when Dean climbs in the back with Cas, cradling his head in his lap. Apologies get stuck in Dean’s throat, so he settles on soft touches. Pushing hair from Castiel’s forehead. Caressing his face. He stares down at Castiel’s face, at the dark lashes splayed across pale cheeks. Pink lips that are breathing in soft, shallow breaths. Dean only looks up when the black night is penetrated by a bright, flickering light.

Sam’s figure is a silhouette as the flames lick up the greying walls. Orange and yellow growing and consuming the building and lighting up the black night. Melting the soft ice. Reaching into the skies like the fire is trying to reach heaven. The driver’s door opens and closes as Sam climbs into the car. Dean looks to Castiel and doesn’t look back at the fire as the car speeds away from it, disappearing into the black night.

 


End file.
